


tell me if you want me

by literaryFRIVOLOUSneophyte



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Bad Ending (Detroit: Become Human), Comfort/Angst, M/M, Married Couple, On the Run, Road Trips, sorta - Freeform, those last two tags... that's it that's the fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-08
Updated: 2019-03-08
Packaged: 2019-11-13 18:44:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18036791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/literaryFRIVOLOUSneophyte/pseuds/literaryFRIVOLOUSneophyte
Summary: The revolution failed. As the government hunts down the last androids, Hank and Connor elope. They’re on the run and they don’t know where they’re going - only that they cannot stop.Come into the water / Do you wanna be my baby? / Are you waiting to touch me? / I didn’t know I had a dream / I didn’t know until I saw you.





	tell me if you want me

**Author's Note:**

> I feel guilty posting this like hours before the deadline and know it’s not exactly what the prompter wanted, but I went so long without writing because I just dreaded opening up Google Docs until I realized... This is supposed to be fun. This is not supposed to give me anxiety. So I wrote what I love writing: brooding landscape imagery, meandering angst, a vague sense of unease and a feeling that _something_ is missing inside you and will never be satisfied. Not exactly the best honeymoon! But I hope the giftee enjoys it nonetheless.
> 
> For @gavimp on tumblr. Rated M for sexual content at the end.

In a field, besides a large half-rotted oak tree, Connor stands with grass up to his knees. The wind sweeps his hair to the side and pulls at the lapels of his coat with the insistence of a small child. He rolls one loose button through his fingers, knuckle over knuckle, palm to palm.

Hank throws the muddy tarp off the truck and whistles. “You know, under all the, uh, dirt and grime and everything, she's a real beauty,” he says, gesturing at the engine. “Relic from the past, she is. You can tell by the - look through the window, see? Look at the wheel. Look at the gear shift. You can't just tell her where to go. You gotta drive her there yourself.” He walks around the truck. “She's been here a long, and I mean _long_ time.”

Before the tarp touched the ground, Connor knew all that and more. He doesn't share this with Hank. As Hank guesses what year the truck was made, Connor tosses the button in the air and catches it between his thumb and forefinger. He watches the light move on the surface, shiny and black like an invisible thread. He tosses it again, higher, and catches it mid-air with the other hand, spinning it a few times on the edge of his fingernail.

An empty bird’s nest teeters in the oak tree’s branches. Connor looks around the field, eyes steady, head turning to follow his gaze. There are no other trees, not where the flat off-white sky meets the road or where it slithers into the distance with the low drone of traffic. The middle of nowhere no longer exists.

“Wonder who left her here,” Hank says.

“They died,” Connor states matter-of-factly. “Their son never sold it, and then their granddaughter inherited it. She hasn’t made any attempts to sell it, either. Officially.”

“You run the license plates?”

“I did.”

“Why doesn't she sell it?”

“I would, at first, assume it was never sold for sentimental reasons... but this vehicle is not being taken care of. The granddaughter currently lives fifteen miles away. Leaving it was a conscious choice made by both her and her father.”

“Huh.” Hank rests his hand on the truck’s dusty side mirror. _Closer than they appear._ “She’s got secrets we’ll never know.”

From behind, Connor touches Hank’s shoulder.

“We should find somewhere to sleep.”

/

They cross the woods in a kudzu haze and the trees become fewer and fewer until there are none at all. Rows of tilled earth stretch for miles. The lingering scent of magnolia reminds Hank of the small chapel they got married in. Instead of wine and roses, they had lemonade and Dollar Store wreaths, discounted since they were leftovers from Christmas.

An older model holds a rake and stands in a barn as fire spreads quickly and wooden planks collapse around her. She’s a steel frame with exposed wires and clotted thirium like candle wax. _The cows are never coming home,_ Hank thinks, almost hysterical, and then a twinge of guilt unsettles his stomach. He shouldn't have eaten that Big Mac - he's going to puke. He rolls down the window and the smell of smoke makes him retch, choking on his rising bile.

She's still standing there.

Sometimes, when Hank leaves the motel room by himself, he comes back and Connor is gone. He might find a post-it note on the door. Or he might clutch his greasy bag of fast food and stare at the long plastic legs stretched across the bed. He knows that’s Connor. He knows he can deactivate his skin. It’s still him. It’s still his husband. But that little primate at the back of his brain grabs the bars of its cage and begins to scream.

Connor wears beanies and ballcaps in public. If they’re in a hurry, he simply brushes his hair over his LED. They don’t argue about it anymore, but Hank wishes he would remove it for his own safety. In bathrooms as badly lit as the flickering vacancy signs, Connor prods his LED like a tender bruise and Hank sits on the toilet with his polyester slacks around his ankles, fumbling for toilet paper.

There was the time that Hank asked, “You know you can leave, right, Connor? You can always leave if you want.”

“I thought we were past this.”

“I just want you to know.”

“I do know. You keep reminding me.” And he kept touching his LED as he softly said, “I need you, Hank. I get this... feeling in my chest when you are gone.”

When he kisses Connor’s smooth lips, he marvels at the texture. _So realistic._

/

“Good morning, Hank.”

“I barely slept last night. Thanks to you, Mr. Anderson.”

Connor smiles without showing any teeth.

/

The radio stopped working when they reached the mountains. It’s just them and a pair of headlights far behind in the cataract-grey mist, following the winding road into the deeper fog.

Connor breaks the silence with, “How are you? Your vitals are fine, but I want to demonstrate my affection for you through small talk.”

“I’m just thinking.”

“Tell me what you’re thinking about.”

“I dunno... motels. They look the same, everywhere we go. Identical.”

“Having everything look the same as they are back home comforts people.”

“Yeah, but...” Hank makes a noncommittal noise and adjusts the radio dials, finding only static. “Just, we've passed through all these states, and the only thing that changes is the weather.” He lets out a long exhale and looks out the window. “I wish I could give you nicer things for our honeymoon.”

The gentle cadence of Connor’s voice is better than any 80s ballad. “You are enough for me.”

“That’s how I know you’re serious,” Hank says. “It’s when you don’t conjugate.”

/

The car traps Hank’s body odor. He’s acutely aware of the last time he showered, and next to Connor, he feels like an animal. A sweaty, hairy, fleshy animal that eats and shits and then dies. He fidgets in his seat and looks out the window and doesn’t say anything about his growing panic. Lupine moves sideways in the breeze, passing in a blur of blue. An abandoned house squats at the side of the road, its three remaining walls covered in graffiti. Through the smashed-in windows, Hank catches a glimpse of the many trash bags and grimaces, imagining the stench of ammonia. The floor is covered in shards of glass and used condoms.

The rest of the day blends together into the sound of wind turbines and visions of billboards warning against the devil or advertising cough syrup. That night, Hank peels off his cotton shirt and Connor puts his face in his neck, breathing deep.

“You’re so warm,” he says.

Sometimes weeks go by before Hank realizes he hasn’t spoken to anyone besides Connor and cashiers at gas stations.

/

There’s a strong smell of seaweed as they walk under the eucalyptus trees. They have to climb down to reach the cove, a small private area of the beach closed off from the rest by a promontory. The sand is dark and damp, and they sink ankle-deep into it, laughing like children. Smooth skin glistening with saltwater, Connor lays in it naked with Hank besides him, chest to chest.

Seagulls skim the surface of the water. Connor kisses the lines of Hank’s blotchy face, his crow’s feet and eye bags, touching every wrinkle with his thumb. He rubs Hank’s beard against his cheek with a soft sigh like the wind. They listen to the tide fill the crevices of the rocks, spilling back out as foam. Their fingers intertwine.

/

He runs his hands over Connor’s back, feeling the hard muscles under his shoulders, moving to his flat stomach and over his firm calves. His beard hairs glisten as Connor’s balls rub wetly against his chin. He sucks them into his mouth and applies a little pressure with his teeth, feeling the implants under Connor’s skin. With one hand he pumps the shaft, smearing blue-tinted cum over his fingers, and with the other, he thumbs the crease of Connor’s ass and pushes at his rim.

“You’re my everything,” Connor whispers in the darkness.


End file.
